You will remember only as far as your Babushka
but, girl, the songs go back further,
stored in your temporal lobes, dormant
until you hear them as if for the first time.
They will be carried on the wind through deserts,
plucked on the grasses of the steppe.
Your ponies are older than these songs,
they remember other music.
You will not know our many mass-extinctions,
how variations on these airs once were heard
by a billion ears, that we too had the fortune
to dance to them a while.
You will rise from fresh seas as volcanic islands
and life will grab hold, an infant to its mother.
She will send a ripple through the cytoplasmic waters
of every living cell; every organelle will quiver
and vibrate to her tune,
the sound of her weeping.